Bird 1 – White-tailed Eagle
Craggy. Noble. Magnificent.
Fucking huge.
It’s perched on a post in the middle distance, this eagle, easily viewable from the visitor centre at RSPB Pulborough Brooks. They have a telescope set up, which is nice but not strictly necessary. The bird, even from this distance, is clearly visible with the naked eye. Proper massive.
Victims of persecution, White-tailed Eagles were exterminated from Britain by the middle of the 20th century. A reintroduction scheme, first mooted in the 1960s, gave them a foothold on the northwestern Scottish islands around the turn of the century, and this was followed more recently by another scheme on the Isle of Wight. They like to roam, these birds, but home is the south coast. Wander around Sussex, Hampshire, the Isle of Wight or Dorset (Poole Harbour is a regular haunt) and you might, if you’re lucky, run into one.
But how will I recognise this eagle of which you speak?
Well, like I say, they’re huge. You might see a bird you think is big, and wonder if it’s an eagle. It isn’t. That’s a buzzard. A buzzard is impressive enough in its own way – and a pleasingly regular sight compared to the low point of the 1960s – but an eagle is something else. In certain parts of Scotland buzzards are known as ‘tourist eagles’. It passes for big, a buzzard. And then you see an actual eagle and you realise.
Yes, I see now. I have been foolish and deluded, and am a bear of no brain at all.
I watch it through the telescope for a minute or two. It remains perched. It remains craggy. It remains noble.
It carries with it an air of untamed ruggedness. You can picture it similarly perched on a cliff ledge, the wild sea lashing the rocks below, storm clouds boiling above. You could imagine it on the arm of a Norse god.
But here it is in genteel Sussex, being gently pointed out to visitors by volunteers in branded RSPB polo shirts. The visitors nod politely, say ‘ooh yes’, and shuffle through to the cafe. Earl Grey, lemon drizzle, huge fucking eagle.
The joys of birding are many and varied.
Bird 2 – Nightingale
Tea-ed and caked, I stroll onto the reserve. I haven’t come specifically to hear a nightingale, but if there isn’t a nightingale I’ll be addressing a stiff letter of complaint to whoever’s responsible for these things.
A nondescript bird, the nightingale – its main distinguishing feature is its lack of distinguishing features. Clod brown, according to John Clare. But in describing its appearance he was an outlier. The Poets (and they have found the lure of the bird irresistible) generally focus on the song – and over the years they have, let’s be honest, rather gone on about it.
I’m not The Poets, but I do admit to a little frisson at the sound.
Chee chew chew chew, says Clare.
Cheer cheer cheer cheer.
Later, he elaborates:
Wew wew wew wew chur chur chur chur chur
Woo it woo it could this be her
Tee rew tee rew tee rew tee rew
Chewsit chewsit and ever new
Will will will will grig grig grig grig
Really rather extraordinary, as poetry goes. And as a description of the nightingale’s song, strangely – compellingly – true to the reality.
Early June is the tail end of the nightingale’s serenading season, so I know I’m pushing my luck. They say there’s still one singing. I go to the place and wait. And wait. And wait.
Nah. Come on. The reserve is big, and the nightingale is not the only bird.
One more minute.
Good things come to those who wait.
Quiet, it starts.
Chee chew chew chew.
Just as the poet said.
Bird 3 – Common Tern
There are few things in the natural world noisier than a colony of black-headed gulls.
GRAAARRR RAAARRR SKWAAARRR RAAARR RRAAAARRRR SKWWAAAARRRR GRRAAARRR RAAARRRR SKWAAARRRR SKRRAAAARRRR RRRAAARRRR GRRAARRRR SKRRWWAAARRRRR sorry to go on, but they SKWAAARRR RRAAARRRR GRAARRR SKRWAAARRRR I mean it’s relentl— SKWWAAARRRR GRRAAAARRR RRAAARRRR GRRWAAAAARRR
SHUT UP YOU SHOUTY IDIOTS JESUS I CAN’T HEAR MYSELF THINK
Thank you.
The blessing is that this lot are relatively distant, on the island in the middle of the pond. About fifty of them, I reckon, their constant squabbling forming a mildly unsettling aural backdrop to an otherwise peaceful walk. As well as the sound, there’s a constant flurry of activity as birds fly up and around and land again. I register them, watch for a bit, walk on.
GRAAARRRR RAAARRR SKWAAARRR. Close, this time. Really close. And with it, a different sound, with a different timbre.
SSKKRREEEEE.
Over my shoulder they appear. Four birds, three chasing one. The one is a Common Tern. And the reason for the chasing and the screeching and the general hubbub is held in its beak. A fish, a floppy silver morsel glistening softly in the hesitant sunlight.
Three gulls, one tern. An unfair fight, you’d think, especially given the slight size advantage held by the gulls. But the tern is sharp and swift, jinking on pointed wing to dodge and duck and hold them at bay. The gulls shriek, furious. The tern shrieks back (a neat trick when you’ve got a fish in your mouth).
Duck, dodge, jink, over the water and round and up.
I’m cheering for the tern. Like, come off it, gulls, you feckless gits, CATCH YOUR OWN FISH.
With a final flick of the wings and an extra spurt of speed, the tern extends its lead by another yard, and the gulls, admitting defeat in the manner of lumbering forwards chasing a sprightly wing-three-quarter in sight of the try line, fall away.
grar, they mutter. skwar.
We could have got him if we’d really wanted to.
Bird 4 – Little Owl
Here’s what you do.
You leave the gulls behind you and walk away from the ponds in search of some quiet.
You go up the gentle rise, keeping the trees on your left.
You reach the last one, a huge and handsome oak with gnarly bark. The kind of tree people tell stories about.
You stop a decent distance away and raise your binoculars. That first branch, the thick one sticking out at right angles? That’s where you look. And you quickly see that the bark isn’t all bark. Some of it is feather.
Camouflage is amazing.
The feathers belong to a Little Owl, the British owl you’re most likely to see in daytime.
The encounter doesn’t last long. It stands for a few seconds – just long enough for it to register its strong disapproval of me and everything I stand for – then ducks down out of sight.
A few seconds later, the top of an owly head and two owly eyes reappear, as if checking to see if the coast is clear.
I take the hint.
This is a photo of the last Little Owl I saw, five years ago. It remains the photo I dig out whenever I need recourse to a visual representation of ‘I am very extremely unimpressed with your shit’.
Bird 5 – Jackdaw
To the cafe. The tables are entirely occupied by humans.
Well, not entirely. One of them is given over to jackdaws.
Scavengers, chancers, spivs. Would absolutely sell their own grandmother for a chunk of currant bun.
But such handsome chancers. Beautiful spivs. The glossy black plumage, the grey nape, the pale silver eye.
I catch one of them perched on a chair. It has that faraway look in its eye that tells you it’s thinking about chips.
Bird 6 – Pied wagtail
Little black-and-white wind-up toy on a pavement in Richmond. Busy busy busy. Risking its neck in pursuit of pavement scraps. Whirr scurry scurry whirr.
A lesser bird would go somewhere else. Somewhere with fewer people. Somewhere lacking the constant frisson of danger brought on by the stream of clumsy human feet.
Pied wagtails aren’t lesser birds. They’re nimble and alert and if necessary they’ll fly out of danger with a flurry of wings and flare of tail, landing ten yards away and picking up exactly where it left off.
Busy busy busy.
Bonus Bird – Heron
It walks up the rise towards us from the water’s edge. Tall, slender, watchful. Careful of tread, its clawed feet barely disturbing the grass. S-bend neck, yellow dagger bill.
What a thing. By any measure, what an extraordinary, weird, almost other-worldly creature.
It approaches us with slow purpose, fearless, coming close. I could reach out and touch it – if it weren’t for the look in its eye and the sharpness of that dagger, I probably would.
It pauses on the edge of the path.
‘Got any fish, mate?’
‘Sorry, mate, all out.’
‘Huh.’
And back it goes, a thin, loping, grey-and-white streak of disappointment.
Promotion Department
Taking Flight remains relentlessly available. The excellent Johnny Daukes did this terrific animation for it, using components of the cover (designed by the equally excellent Emma Ewbank). There are loads of options to buy it here. It’s also currently £1.99 on Kindle. And if, for whatever reason, you prefer borrowing books to buying them (and if you’re lucky enough to still have a local library), a library loan is also wonderful from all points of view – including the author’s, because we get a little payment for each loan, thanks to the brilliance of the Public Lending Right.
“Scavengers, chancers, spivs. Would absolutely sell their own grandmother for a chunk of currant bun.”
Made me laugh out loud. You got to love a jackdaw…
'On the arm of a Norse God' - perfect picture.